


splitting threads of thunder

by monado (orphan_account)



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Blood, Creative Use Of Murasama, Guro, Heavy Masochism, M/M, Masochism, Overstimulation a bit, PWP, Trans Raiden, Weapons Kink, Wound Fucking, Wow!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-30 01:06:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16276028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/monado
Summary: It’s a full performance, beginning middle and end.





	splitting threads of thunder

**Author's Note:**

> pretty obviously inspired by [rhysgore's fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12683628) and also [this](https://www.deviantart.com/ukenceto/art/Rules-of-Nature-738036391). title is from fineshrine by purity ring it's good shit
> 
> i dunno man !

Battle wounds are unique. They burn, blister, and run, uncontained, disgusting and picturesque. Adrenaline numbs pain, sharpens it into pleasure -- twists it into a roaring song and dance that Raiden’s been pulled along with his whole life.

 

The _tap tap_ of his feet on the ground is drowned by harsh breaths, screams, yowls, the nails-on-chalkboard of metal-on-metal. It’s a full performance, beginning middle and end. The conclusion is abrupt, graceful, and finite.

 

Finite, and unsatisfying. Blood pumps, still, uncontrolled.

 

He flicks the red off his HF blade, almost regretting it. The fight was short, but not what he would call sweet -- it didn’t fill the craving in his chest, instead teasing it just enough for the ache to be torturous.

 

Sam stands towards the side, heaving in what Raiden knows as a combination of excitement and thrill rather than exhaustion. Blood splatter trails around his armour, different patterns telling their own individual stories. More blood crawls down the lines of his plating than what’s on Jack.

 

He can anticipate the heavy weight to Sam’s stare when it swivels into view. It’s everything he expected; dark, and taut with unfulfilled fire. There’s blood across his nose, dribbling down his chin into the scruff, and he smiles, and swipes his tongue across some of it.

 

Raiden grins, teeth baring languidly, as he walks up. “Looks like you’re unsatisfied.”

 

That tongue peeks out again, briefly, coyly acknowledging how much Raiden has cut to the chase. “Oh, you know me so well,” he croons, tilting his head, strands of loose hair framing his shit-eating grin. It’s a grin that knows what’s coming -- but that’s alright. There’s always time for their game later, and the edge in Sam’s eye tells him that he’d rather skip it, too.

 

Raiden hums as he leans in and slightly up, taking Sam’s lower lip and biting into it, pressing open mouthed kisses around it, dragging his tongue up through stubble and blood. Sam lets him, for a minute, with a clear air of amusement, before grabbing Raiden’s jaw and crushing their lips together, bruising and unforgiving. Sam’s thumbs stroke at his cheeks; Raiden huffs; Raiden scratches at his scalp; Sam groans. They’re both quite sensitive, generally, and as is all things between them, it’s a recurring competition. Just because they aren’t playing the game as much, right now, doesn’t mean that it’s not part of the fun.

 

Upper lip sore and throbbing, and jaw slick and shiny from spit, he pauses to take a breath. He uses the opportunity to press kisses along the underside of Sam’s neck, the front being the only part unarmoured, when he tilts his head back. Raiden can feel the vibrations from his throat, and when he starts to bear over him, Sam lets him.

 

Murasama digs into his hip. It’s not an issue, persay -- he can hardly notice it -- but the ache whispers, and sighs, and Raiden’s lips fall open as his breath stutters.

 

Sam makes a questioning noise as Raiden backs up, electric with the idea rattling through his skull, sending jolts through his lungs. It surges up into his throat, and he laughs airily.

 

“Jack?” It’s anticipatory, picking up on his energy with a smile. Raiden blinks a moment longer, before thinking _fuck it,_ and pulls Murasama out of its sheath.

 

Doktor is going to kill him.

 

The sword scrapes against the reinforced plating of his abdomen. He drags the tip down the artificial muscles, arms outstretched, hands near-trembling on the hilt. Sam’s exhale is shaky.

 

“Jack,” he says, and that is all.

 

The tension strings thick in his chest. He presses his thighs together desperately, takes a deep breath.

 

The sword is an HF blade, and it does what it does best. It slides, like butter, into the armour, the sharp tip leading the way for the vertical slide of the metal. He feels it, hard and hot, as it digs through into his muscle, and he savours the feeling of first entry with a buckling sigh. It spreads, a web of pain and fire, across his body, through his bones and into his cunt. His hips twitch, and it agitates the slight pierce of the blade, and he gasps.

 

A warmth descends onto his hands. Sam has a palm on the hilt, over Raiden’s fingers; he’s turned so that he can hold it, but he stares into his eyes, incredulity and awe flitting across his face.

 

It’s all Raiden needs. He takes a deep breath and pushes the sword, slow but hard, further and further into him. It hurts, it hurts so _much_ \-- he moans in pain, or pleasure, or somewhere in between, when Sam’s other hand snaps his codpiece off and rubs his fingers up and down his slit. The motion has his body reacting, and he rocks into the blade as much as he rocks into the touch.

 

“Come on, come on,” Sam murmurs, low and heavy, “I know you can take it.” It’s the same tone he uses when he’s fucking him, and Jack whines at the intimacy of Sam’s sword, Sam’s keepsake and treasure, lethal weapon that owns the lives of so many, sliding deeper and deeper into his guts.

 

He chokes on a sob as the pain eclipses all else. Sam shushes him, soothing and soft, and rubs at his clit gently. Jack is panting. “One inch at a time.”

 

Just an inch. He can do that. He pushes the sword, weakly, elbows starting to bend; Sam’s grip tightens, and Jack is unprepared for the force of the sword’s movement. He whines, throat constricted, as Sam guides the blade in, faster and deeper than he wants.

 

“Sa-a- _a_ -” is all he can say as the blade pierces through his back.

 

His blood dribbles in rivulets down to the hilt. The sword is probably piercing his artificial stomach, from the feel of it, sharp and hot and wet. He’s shaking, one hand clenched in a death grip underneath Sam’s, as he brings his other to his abdomen, touching the red-rimmed spot, one finger habitually moving to hook the wound. Shocks of pain, pleasure, and vague worry make it hard for him to stay on his feet, and he desperately tries to keep his hips from jerking, equally at Sam’s insistent touch and at the vibrating steel, invasive and alien. 

 

Sam takes mercy, and allows Raiden’s hips to slow, so that he can bring the hand up and push two fingers into his mouth. His eyes are so blown that there is no colour. His mouth hangs open, slightly.

 

His gaze is fixed on Raiden’s mouth as he speaks. “You look _amazing_ like this.” A breath. “I can’t believe you’d fuck my blade, like this.” A twinge of embarrassment descends, is drowned by the flood of tawdry delight. “How many are inside you, right now? Do you count those whose blood now mixes with yours? Or do you count each and every soul torn to shreds by this steel?”

 

Sam trails a finger around the blade, and the wound sings red. Blood trails all the way down Raiden’s shaking legs, now, dripping into the crevice of his pussy and then to the ground from there. Two fingers press down hard on his tongue. Raiden moans. Sam hums.

 

“But you love it, don’t you.” Raiden wants to respond, instinctively, but fingers slide deeper and his breaths struggle around them. “You can't deny that you _love this_.” Raiden whines, loud and jagged, and the timbre of Sam’s hum tells him he’s pleased.

 

Breaths become normal as Sam takes his hand away, from both his mouth and the sword. Raiden watches, with difficulty, as Sam kneels, dirt crunching under his weight. He pats the ground in front of him expectantly. “Come on, then.”

 

“Oh, god,” he wheezes, as he braces himself. Each movement brings new pain, new tremors, and it’s a struggle to bend his knees comfortably. When he gets close enough to the ground, his balance fails, and he catches himself with a hand, hissing, eyes seared shut. His jaw is clattering, he is on fire, and he drops to the ground with a pained moan, the trembling steel sending shocks all the way to his toes.

 

A soothing “good, good,” takes the edge off, as does a soft touch across his cheekbones, featherlight but solid. He sighs, knees folded, sword sticking in him at an angle as he hunches forward. He wrenches his eyes open as his chin is brought upwards, surveys the look in blackened eyes with hungry curiosity.

 

Sam is -- upon closer inspection, Sam looks like he’s on the precipice of something. There’s a sheen of glossy patience over his eyes, shattering by the second by something that rattles, threatens to consume. The pressure from his fingers is uneven as he repeats the same motion.

 

Raiden grins, cheeks aching with the force of it. “You’re gonna say that _I_ like it?” His voice is raspy, ruined, as he grasps the hilt showily. “That _you’re_ not the sick one?” He pushes the sword all the way through, the hilt pressing up against his abdomen. He gasps, pants, cackles at the look on Sam’s face. “You think about this all the time, don’t you?”

 

The quick blink is enough of an answer. Jack laughs again. He presses his legs together, hard, to brace against the hard and sudden movement of pushing and pulling the sword like a lever, of tearing through more and more artificial tissue. Jack moans, loud, almost more of a yell than anything, as the pain heightens to a fever pitch, the agitation of the old wounds and the lengthening of the cut borderline euphoric.

 

“ _Go_ \- _d,”_ Raiden chokes out, nerves on fire and spit dribbling down his chin. The sword is so _deep,_ deeper than a cock, deeper than any toys they've tried, any cyborg enhancements -- it’s simple, and pure, and warm. Sam’s breath hitches audibly. Glee courses through him at the noise, and a laugh bubbles out of his throat again.

 

Sam presses frantic kisses into his mouth, all tongue and zero finesse. It suits Jack just fine -- he's already messy, bloody and drooling and so, so wet. He laughs into Sam’s mouth, twisting the blade sharply with one hand, hips and voice stuttering loudly. A hand flies to the hilt, holding as Raiden starts to slide the blade out of himself, clutching as he slides it back in.

 

His vision is spotty at the edges, but it feels so _good_. His HUD blinks at him as he thrusts the sword to the hilt, ripping and tearing through abused muscle and wire. The pain is overwhelming, and so sweet, and he can't remember a time he's ever felt so good.

 

Sam moves away from him a bit. Raiden’s blood is all over him, now. He grins, all teeth, as Sam unclasps his codpiece. He looks painfully hard, angry red and drooling, and he hisses at his own touch.

 

Raiden hums. He leans forward, blade shifting blissfully, uses the hand most covered in blood to run a finger up the underside, red streaking weakly at his touch. A small _ah_ looses its way out from a wide throat, and Raiden knows, in this moment, he could do anything, and Sam would let him.

 

So he slides Murasama out from his stomach, groaning all the while, savouring the feeling of the steel as it burns out of him. He drops it, once it’s out; it’s saturated red, stained darker and more beautiful than ever. Pride glows in Jack’s chest.

 

Jack hooks his arms around Sam’s neck, pulls him down slowly. He makes a consistent whine of pain as he lays back, and the dirt on the ground agitates the wound. Sam is heaving, possibly already on the way to coming.

 

He smiles, languidly stretches his arms, purposefully arching his back, knocking the wind out of himself and prompting Sam to lean all the way over him.

 

“Fuck me,” he says, breathily, voice mangled and rough, in the way Sam likes. Sure enough, his breathing hitches, and he braces his forearms on the ground, hard. His hair tickles Jack’s face -- it doesn't bother him, because everything throbs.

 

“God, Jack,” he wheezes, and kisses him hard, rough. He runs a hand down his chest, and Jack tenses in anticipation until he drags his hand across the wound, grinds the heel into it; Jack wails into Sam’s throat. Sam pauses, a moment of hesitation that has Jack reeling in anticipation, before prodding at the wound with a finger.

 

“Is… Can I-” He swallows. Jack laughs.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” he growls, arching up into Sam, who sucks a breath in.

 

They wrench the jagged armour plate off; Jack pulls until it snaps, detaches from his wiring with sparks and a yell, while Sam uses Murasama to saw through the straps holding it. They waste no time once it’s off, once Jack is exposed and bare, muscle coiling and heaving and slick with red.

 

The stretch of Sam’s finger is decidedly different from the slide of a blade. Blades are all fire, liquid smoke and electricity, but Sam’s finger _burns._ It burns in ways he's never felt before, as Sam rips wide the long wound, forcing space for his finger where there is none. Jack moans jaggedly. The cut squelches sickly, blood bubbling alongside the entry point.

 

He's moving slowly. Impatience wracks his body -- Jack tugs at the wound, widens it, sticks two claws in alongside Sam, ripping. It’s _incredible_.

 

“Feel- so good,” he gasps, arching his hips, “ _Sam_.”

 

A deep rumble is his warning before Sam pushes another finger in and tugs towards the side, hard. Jack’s eyes roll back into his head. Sam’s fingers are in his guts, tearing through his guts, and the idea is just as appealing as the reality.

 

He mumbles a litany of encouragements _(come on, you can do better than that, ruin me),_ desperate for more, for harder, deeper contact, for spine-curling shocks. Sam knows he wants it to hurt -- he gives his fingers a blessed twist, before shoving two fingers deep into his cunt, eased and sliding but still stinging in brute force. The quick, hard crooking of his fingers feels amazing, so overwhelming; pain streaks through him and he can't hold himself up.

 

“A-Are- _ugh,_ you ever-” his whole body coils in painpleasure, “fuck- me?”

 

Sam slows down, realizes. He takes a long breath, smirks. “Can't help it if you're so captivating.” As punishment for his insolence, Jack sits up, grabs at his cock, squeezes it just a bit too hard. Sam gasps, smiles crookedly down at him. “Nice try, but you know I like that.”

 

Jack lays down. “Well if you like that,” he spreads the edges of the stab wound open with his claws, “I think I've got something _much_ tighter than anything you've ever had.”

 

Sam laughs incredulously, once, before bearing over Raiden’s bloody form. He straddles his upper hips, heavy thighs pinning him. Jack is dizzy, but he's not sure if it's because of the sudden pressure or the blood loss. Whichever it is, he can’t be sure how many seconds pass with Sam perched on him.

 

“Will it- cause damage?”

 

Jack lifts his head, indignation bringing his eyebrows down. “Th’ fuck? You ask me that _now?_ ”

 

“That’s not it.” Powerful hands drag across his neck, over his collarbones and down towards the wet mess of his abdomen. He runs two fingers across the length of the cut, into the divot but never _in._ Jack groans, pushes upwards, aching to be full, but Sam won’t indulge him, instead leaning in barely above his reach. “Just want to know how much I’ll have to send the good Doktor.”

 

A cackle rips from his throat as Sam teases back in, three fingers sideways, squishing and burning. “You want to fuck me up, then, huh? Want to turn me into a bloody pulp inside? Sick fuck.” He pulls Sam’s head down, gives his bottom lip a wicked bite, opening another wound to lap at, salty and warm. He can’t tell which of them is more vocal, anymore, over the litany of wet noises, some normal, some not, most accompanied by a blistering rush _._ “Nnn,” is all Jack can manage, tongue lolling into Sam’s mouth, smouldering. He pulses everywhere, hard, and the aggressive rubbing deep inside him hits a point of unbearability. “Get on with it,” he gasps, sinking his teeth back into the split lip. “ _Wreck_ me.”

 

Sam seems too overwhelmed to speak as he slides back down Jack, holding himself up on his knees, lifting Jack via the upper back -- he hangs onto Sam’s shoulders, as best he can with slippery hands. He wriggles forward insistently, dripping, arches his chest. Sam growls, grits his teeth as he pushes into Jack.

 

It’s more than Jack’s ever felt. There are so many colours in his eyes, bursting into blistering stars; he screams as he splits open under Sam, as he surges up around him. Sam isn't small by any means, and he might be used to his size, but he's not used to it _in his stomach_ -

 

Sam bottoms out, hips pressed flush to abdomen. Jack feels vaguely ill and he wails, pierced deep and blunt. Sam is above him, eyes screwed tight and jaw falling open. Jack can hardly focus on anything other than the spiking pain, the shaking in his legs and body, the raw red euphoria coursing through him, but he makes a point of fixing his eyes on Sam, of watching him moan and pant. Jack smiles.

 

“It-it’s _good_ , isn't it?” He laughs, bucks upwards, making Sam buckle and brace himself on an arm. “All the blood makes it so _easy_. God, it's everywhere. So messy.” Sam rights himself, grabs Raiden roughly, pistons his hips in a shallow thrust. Jack gasps drunkenly, tightens his hold behind Sam’s neck. Two more thrusts has Jack feeling like he's going to pass out.

 

He starts fucking in earnest, driving into him relentlessly, heedless of the damage being done to Jack’s guts. He’s so hot he starts to feel cold. The slit is stretched around Sam like a real cunt, but his cock is so, so red, red down to the balls and smeared, and the difference couldn't be more emphasized. The noises are wetter, filthier, the angle is all wrong, the slip and slide is-

 

The hurt starts to peak, in a way Jack didn't think possible. The wound feels less raw and more bruised, at this point, but the battering of Sam’s cock guarantees that it'll be agitated nonstop -- the cocktail of pain shoots straight to his dripping thighs, neglected and throbbing.

 

Sam's certainly enjoying it. His thighs shake with every motion, powerful and earth-shattering. He wishes he could have his lips at this angle, bite and claw and take, but he supposes it's the price to pay.

 

His hand slides over Murasama. He smiles, breathy and audible. He scrabbles at the sword, jerkily, holding the red of the blade, and manages to slip it under a knee through the frantic pace. He grasps the hilt, spreads his knees, and pushes it into him, slick and aching. The stretch is awful, uncomfortable thanks to the shape (tall, not all that wide) but it's what he needed; he uses the flat of the blade to push it as deep as it can go -- he clenches around it violently, in time with Sam’s groans, and starts pushing it into him desperately. His hand might be cut and bleeding from the blade, but it's hardly pain he notices.

 

He's wracked with tremors, he's so full -- never been this full, not ever -- his elbow shuffles roughly on the ground. Another unrestrained laugh scrapes its way out from a throat made of broken glass. Sam looks down at him, hair swaying, and his eyes widen as he realizes Jack’s fucking the sword, too. Jack smiles as best he can around his lolling tongue.

 

“ _Jesus,”_ Sam whines, and he speeds up, heedless of Jack’s comfort, wrecking him, using him. Jack’s moans are threaded with gleeful cackling, a mouth full of teeth.

 

“C-come on,” he rasps, “come on, I can take it. Fuck me up, _Sam_.” He giggles, unrestrained in volume and tone. “I w-want you to come- in me- hahaha!” Sam groans, low and rumbling and desperate. “ _Really_ inside!” It's said with an edge of silliness, absurdity, and he scrapes his claws noisily against armour. He twists Murasama’s hilt inside of him, fucks it deep, rucks his hips up as much as he can with Sam pressing them down -- Sam scrabbles at him, pulling them flush together, joined so closely. His cock is too much, so much and it’s tearing through him, ripping him apart. “God, you have no- idea. Feel so good. _God,_ it _hurts_ ,” Jack slams to the ground, throws back his neck and yells, animalistic.

 

He comes loud, aggressively, and Jack feels so much that he almost shuts down, body convulsing and arching and sparking. Murasama batters deep, but he pushes it deeper, till he takes the entire hilt. Drool dribbles down his chin and the sides of his mouth, his senses cross with each other, everything narrows into simple bliss, into the heartbeat in his stomach.

 

Everything sharpens into a clarity forgotten. His abdomen is a messy sight, coated in a layer of slick thick red, sucking in an even redder cock. The pain is distilled now, less tempered by pleasure, and Jack starts to whimper.

 

“Sam,” he gasps, clutching his shoulders. “Sam- Sam please-” He fucks harder, hands so tight on him that his plates creak -- it hurts more than ever, and he won't stop moving. “ _Sam-”_

 

He can't feel the come amidst all the pain and blood and aftershocks, but feeling Sam tense and moan brokenly, knowing the blissed, almost pained look on Sam’s face is because he's fucked his stomach, of all things -- it spreads a honey glow through his chest, parallel with relief.

 

Sam collapses on him. He has the good graces to roll sideways, careful not to rest his full body weight on Jack, after all that. They lay in silence, noisy breathing all that fills the air.

 

A rustle from the side tells Jack Sam’s looking at him; he turns his head too. Sam’s eyes are barely open, lips matted with both dried and fresh blood, and he looks completely wasted.

 

Jack presses two fingers to the wide slit, and hums.

 

“M’ gonna pass out now.”

 

A voice interrupts harsh breaths. “Wait- don't- how am I going to explain-”

 

A heavy, sore, and satisfied cloud descends on his head, and he welcomes it warmly, feeling airy and light. With a last flicker of consciousness, he smiles wide.

 

* * *

 

He can hear Kevin round the corner, and his shoulders slump.

 

“Sorry Raiden,” he says, not sounding all that sorry, “House rules.”

 

He raises his lip. “What ‘house?’ I don't live with Doktor.”

 

Kevin laughs. Raiden feels pathetic, just a bit. “You might as well! How many times have you been here in the past month?” He stares Raiden down. Raiden stares back, unwilling to cooperate because he knows there's a point there. “Dummy.” He knocks his head, lightly, and Raiden bats it away.

 

Kevin’s face falls, a bit. “C’mon, Raiden, you wouldn't _be_ here if you'd been… y’know… a little less crazy.”

 

Raiden crosses his arms petulantly. “I don't think a grown man should be _grounded_ for having a good time.”

 

“A good- a good _time?_ ” Incredulity mixes with absolute disbelief. “I mean- I knew you were into some weirdo shit, but- not to imply I think about these things, you just _really_ don't try to hide it and- I'm gonna stop.”

 

Silence falls. Raiden is very dejected. Kevin sighs. “Alright, I'll see what I can do.” Raiden perks up, wary. “We could at least let you out of here.”

 

“Please do.”

 

“But don't think for a second that I'm going to tell him to reinstall your- your nether regions.” Raiden opens his mouth -- Kevin puts up a finger, shushing him. “No! This is the only thing that's gonna work, you made that clear!”

 

Raiden blinks, languidly. “That's far from the only way-”

 

“Nope! No no! Don't wanna hear it,” Kevin sings, making a beeline towards the door. “And I'm _not_ going to help you see Jetstream. Don't even think about it. He _absolutely_ cannot afford those repairs, no matter what he says, and I'm not stupid enough to let him within a hundred feet of you!”

 

Raiden deflates. Kevin leaves.

 

So much for that.

**Author's Note:**

> BARELY EDITED THIS YOLO


End file.
